


A Slow Thaw

by Anonymous



Series: Templar Twin AU [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Crawford Starrick muses on strangeness of the children dropped in his lap as one falls ill.
Relationships: Jacob Frye & Crawford Starrick
Series: Templar Twin AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068098
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13
Collections: Anonymous





	A Slow Thaw

Frye. 

A common name? Yes.

But two children who'd managed to sneak into his house, stealthy and strong-willed, who both had the name?

It was likely a coincidence. But something in Crawford Starrick's gut told him otherwise.

Every member of the Order knew about the region's Assassins, and it was a point of pride that they'd managed to prevent an Assassin foothold from gaining traction in the city of humanity's future. Still, it was known that those blade-wielding anarchists hovered about around the outskirts of London, waiting for a crack to appear so they could slip in and start an infestation. 

But years had passed and most of the confirmed Assassins had fled, seemingly giving London up. Frye had been one of the few names that had been associated with the Brotherhood and had continued to persist in reports long after the numbers had dwindled.

Crawford made a note to reexamine the more recent notes about Assassin surveillance after breakfast.

Speaking of breakfast…

Crawford eyed his manservant, as the man walked in with an unusual level of solemnity.

"Good morning, sir," Reginald announced, striding to the windows to open the heavy drapes. 

"A bit grim for a good morning, no?"

The manservant sighed and began to stoke the fire. "Pardon my behavior, sir, but the young Miss Frye's fever spiked and truly set in overnight. Young Mister Jacob was quite distraught."

Crawford frowned, feeling yet another unusual spike of worry. Such a strange occurrence. "Has a doctor been called?"

"Indeed, sir. I expect him any mo—"

The chine of the doorbell could faintly be heard, and Reginald nodded in satisfaction. "That will be him. I will escort him to the twins' quarters—"

"Guest room," Crawford cut in. "They're guests, nothing more. They don't have _quarters_."

"...of course, sir," Reginald responded, his serene face utterly unreadable. "I shall go to him now. Breakfast shall be in an hour." He strode out of the room, and Crawford was left with the feeling that he'd either been laughed at or scolded or both.

  
  


* * *

Crawford was just settling down to his meal when the doctor trooped down the stairs past the dining room. Crawford recognized him as Elliotson, an affiliate with an... unsavory reputation. He was undoubtedly brilliant, but Crawford had seen his surgeries and spoken with him at Order meetings and galas. Outside or inside the hospital, the man had the personality of a cold, dead fish: only showing sparks of joy when experimenting, even when (especially when) it meant some simple sod bled out on his table.

Still, manners were a must, and he stood up to shake the man's hand. "Elliotson. Good news, I hope?"

"Indeed." Elliotson sniffed dismissively, and Crawford remembered why he respected the man at a distance. “A simple fever, no unusual strains I’m afraid. Nothing interesting. I’ve prescribed a tonic for the little urchin to be given, twice a day, after meals preferably or every ten hours.”

No doubt, that tonic was of his own creation, and he’d pitch a pretty penny for it. No matter. “My thanks, Doctor.” Crawford really didn’t want to but manner demanded: “Would you like a cup before you depart?”

“No, no” Elliotson waved him off, to Crawford’s equal parts relief and indignation. “I must return. I’m about to have a breakthrough on a new technique, and I daren’t leave the women folk unsupervised for too long; the orderlies think with the wrong head and don’t have the sense to stop the nurses from going above their station.”

“A pity. Very well, we must have a cup together another time. Reginald?” The man appeared like magic. “Ah, yes. If you would…?”

“Of course, sir.” The butler turned to the doctor and gave a slight bow. “Doctor, your carriage has been called. Shall we?”

“Yes, yes. Another time, Starrick. Good day.” Elliotson disappeared towards the entryway, Reginald following. Crawford returned to his seat and allowed himself to slump briefly. Why on earth were all of his associates so…odd?

* * *

He was reading the morning post over a half-eaten plate when Reginald returned, only this time with the boy, Jacob, in tow. When the manservant nudged him, the boy sketched an awkward bow. 

“Hello, Mr. Starrick,” Jacob croaked. His small eyes wwere red-rimmed and swollen, and though his face was clean, Crawford had no doubt the boy had been crying over his sister’s illness.

“Mr. Frye,” the businessman responded, tactfully ignoring the child’s apperence. Not that he looked bad, per say. The filthy tunic was gone (burned, likely) and he was dressed in moderate green and white plaid and dark slacks, both items pinned in various places to keep them from falling of his slim frame. “Come and eat.”

The boy looked nervously at Reginald, who gave and encouraging nod, before walking to the table and clambering onto a chair. His neck barely cleared the tabletop.

“Reginald…”

“Of course, sir.” He slipped a heavy dictionary underneath the child.

“Thank you, sir.” Jacob murmured.

Crawford nodded and went back to his paper.

But he wasn’t really reading. He couldn’t help but eye his table-guest over the paper. 

Jacob struggled to use the knife and fork, before giving up and using only the fork. Then he struggled to eat slowly, but the scent of what must have been the best and most food he’d had in months was too powerful a lure, and he descended into near animalistic devouring.

His nose wrinkled in disgust, but he also couldn’t fault the boy, not really. Still…

“Mr. Frye.”

The boy froze, a slice of bacon hanging comically from his mouth.

“Pace yourself. The food shall not disappear. And your haste will make you sick.”

The boy looked unconvinced, so Crawford dove for his weak point. 

“And if you are incapacitated with a self-inflicted stomachache, how will you look after your sister?”

_Gotcha_. Crawford hid a smirk as the boy straightened, his face becoming a mask of determined seriousness. 

He resumed his reading as Jacob carefully picked up his knife and tried to figure out how to use it, and made a mental note to ensure he taught the boy how to use his utensils.

Then he shook himself. He wasn’t going to teach the urchin anything. They weren’t staying long, and he’d already gone above and beyond his moral duty in feeding, housing, clothing and healing the little thieves.

Across from him, Jacob fumbled with his knife and nearly dropped it.

…

Then again, perhaps a lesson or two wouldn’t go amiss. He wouldn’t let it be said he housed two impressionable young minds and didn’t try to imprint the basics of good society on them.


End file.
